


Case 34: The Adventure Of The Welsh Wordsmith (1882)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [45]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Coal Mining, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Family, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, Letters, London, M/M, Marriage, Problems, Terminal Illnesses, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes, Wales
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-08-14 16:47:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16496405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: ֍ There is more to the 'Strand' magazine that just the exciting adventures of Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson – and one of the authors of those features now needs their help to 'dig' themselves out of a hole.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lyster99](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyster99/gifts).



_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

I was, I will admit, initially unsure about the idea of Watson publishing tales of our adventures together in the _'Strand'_ magazine. I myself had no desire for fame or such, but I was swayed by the fact that I knew that this would provide him a most useful extra income especially as his work at the surgery was still sometimes variable. And I knew, despite his never saying as much, that he quietly resented the fact that I was so much richer than him. In truth I could easily have borne the cost of our accommodation myself but I had the sense not to say as much to him, for he was a proud man at the end of the day.

Similarly it would have been fairly easy to use my or my family's contacts to have secured a publisher for Watson's work. But I knew that in a city this size that sort of thing was bound to come out sooner or later, and that he would have been mortified by my actions. It would surely have damaged our friendship, perhaps irreparably. I was grateful therefore when the publishers Brett and Burke approached him having seen his story in the magazine and asked to include it in a compendium they were producing. The happy look on his face when he came back from depositing their cheque was wonderful.

Curiously it was Watson's venture into publishing which provided this small adventure, one which given the situation of the person involved could hardly be written up at the time. However I have made notes as Watson advised me and maybe one day the world can hear the curious story about Miss Aneira Archer, a lady who was most definitely not what she seemed.

֍

The _'Strand'_ magazine had a whole range of things between its bright covers, none of which I had hitherto paid any attention as I found them mostly facile. I read Watson's stories of course even though I had already examined them thoroughly before he sent them in; this was because I dreaded that some stupid editor would try to amend or even 'improve' things as some of the modern generation seem wont to do. 

That particular fine summer's day Watson seemed more distracted than usual and I knew that something was on his mind. And worryingly he did not yet feel able to tell me about it.

“Is it something that I can help with?” I ventured after dinner that evening. 

He frowned, then sighed.

“It is Aunt Aneira”, he said.

I was surprised. I had thought that he had just one such female relative and that her name started with a J, although I could not quite recall it. He only rarely mentioned his family and I had noted that on the few occasions that he did it was always his mother he spoke of, never his clearly unlamented father.

“Your aunt is in trouble?” I asked. He smiled at that.

“No”, he said. “Miss Aneira Archer, who writes an advice column for the magazine. I have never met her as she lives in South Wales, but she was kind enough to send me a note praising my work when I started.”

Now I remembered, the one other thing in the magazine that I had noted. It was one of those 'agony aunt' columns which bedevil so many magazines, and I had thought it surprisingly well-written considering the fluff and bubble elsewhere in the magazine (a certain excellent writer of detective stories excluded, of course).

“She is in trouble, this 'Aunt Aneira'?” I asked.

“The owners of the magazine apparently wishes her to come to London for a series of events”, he said. “She has written to me asking if you can help her.”

I was puzzled.

“With the travel arrangements?” I asked. “Where does she live, pray?”

“The address on her letter was a place called Resolven, in west Glamorganshire”, he said. “Coal-mining country.”

“I would be delighted to help, friend”, I said. “Although your advice columnist does not seem to dispense information as freely as she dispenses advice.”

“She has a very good reputation”, he said. “When they did a survey of which bits of the magazine people liked most some time back, she came top.”

“Ah”, I said, “but that was doubtless before you appeared on the scene and started scribing the adventures of your brave, dashing and heroic friend.”

“Let us hope that she is not looking for lessons in modesty, then!” he quipped.

I shook my head at him. He really was getting quite catty in his middle age!

֍

This case happened at a particularly difficult time in my troubled family life, to wit my sister's wedding. I got on well with Anna and I thought her prospective husband Mr. Bernard Thompson a sound fellow despite his liking for medieval English music, but the actual wedding would be attended by all her brothers, which meant meeting the likes of Mycroft, Bacchus, Ranulph and Gaillard without inflicting serious bodily harm on any of them despite the temptation. Mother had stated that she would be Cross (or as my sister put it, a Level Five) with any of us who marred the great day, so I would have to wear an uncomfortable suit and spend a whole day avoiding the lot of them. Ugh!

I did ask Watson if he wished to be invited. He looked at me as if I were quite mad!

In the event the whole affair passed off uneventfully, and I had the pleasure of learning afterwards that Mother had rounded up Bacchus and Mycroft over their attitudes towards me as of late and told them it was going to improve. But to show them that she was still talking to them she would read them her new extra-long story.

I think the criminal world calls that 'dodging a bullet'!

֍

While all this was going on Watson had time for a further exchange of letters with the uncommunicative Aunt Aneira. One fact did however emerge; the magazine's reason for inviting her to London was that they were hosting some of their longest-term subscribers at an exclusive event when they would be allowed to speak to some of the famous names from the magazine, including of course Watson. He had shyly asked if I myself would come along and, much as I hated such fripperies, I felt unable to say no when I saw the hope in those green eyes. Maybe this Aunt Aneira just disliked these things even more than I did?

I was also distracted because John was unusually busy at work just then, indirectly because of someone we would shortly come across in person in another case. I will admit that our case some years back with young Mr. Stuart Billingsley, which had brought back memories of the ill-starred poor Lord Tobias Hawke, had affected me greatly, and that family seemed set for their ill-fortune to continue when Tobias' brother and successor Lord Theobald Hawke, then just twenty-two years of age, was diagnosed by John's friend Peter Greenwood with an incurable illness. It might be months or it might be decades, but Lord Hawke's time on this earth was definitely going to be curtailed, and the diagnosis affected Doctor Greenwood badly coming as it did after a run of difficult cases. He had to take a week off to get himself together (at John's request I made sure the surgery paid for that) and my friend was as a result even busier than normal. Incidentally this would lead to a renewal of my relationship with the troubled Hawke family not long after.

֍


	2. Chapter 2

Shortly after Doctor Greenwood's return from work John managed to secure a day off for himself and the two of us decamped to Paddington Station for a train to Swansea from where a local train would take us up the Neath Valley to Resolven. It was another fine summer's day and I was pleased that Watson looked well again after a recent cold that had not helped him in his heavier than usual workload. There may or may not have been extra pie on several evenings when he had returned to Baker Street.

“It is a pity that this broad-gauge never caught on”, he said as we boarded our capacious compartment at Paddington. “It is faster, safer and superior in every way.”

“But it really should never have been built”, I pointed out. “Businesses and people were always going to object to a change of gauge, and with the Company having taken over so many standard-gauge lines a conversion was inevitable. We should enjoy this while we can; they do say another few years and it will be gone.”

He sighed and looked round the compartment.

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

“Just remembering”, he said. “Eight years since I took a train just like this to Oxford and first met you.”

I smiled at the memory.

“Very true”, I said. “And eight years since I tackled you to the floor in the middle of the night.”

And there it was, the Doctor John Watson Official Pout Of Disapproval!

֍

We arrived at Swansea by which time I had just about stopped smirking (and he was still pouting!), and changed to a smart little standard-gauge branch-line train which took us up the Neath Valley. This lay a little apart from the main coal-mining areas to the north-west of Cardiff and I have to say that it was both a strange and an unsettling experience. The valleys had the same sort of rugged beauty as I had seen in pictures of the remoter parts of Yorkshire, yet the landscape was scarred with coal-mine after coal-mine and the associated terraced houses packed together along the often precipitous valley sides. The price of progress, I supposed.

Resolven, although a small enough place, had its own railway station and we were able to alight there and walk the short distance to Number 13 Croft Cottages where I knocked at the door. It was opened by a short young fellow of about twenty-five years of age, who was very evidently a miner from his complexion and who looked at us uncertainly from beneath a tangle of black curls that was almost as unkempt as my own.

“I am Mr. Sherlock Holmes”, I said, “and this is Doctor John Watson. We are looking for his fellow magazine writer who works under the name 'Aunt Aneira'.”

I could sense immediately that something was wrong. He looked guiltily at us then nodded.

“You had better come in”, he said gruffly. 

We entered into a small but well-kept cottage which was very clearly a family home. I looked inquiringly at our host.

“Wife's visiting her mother with the bairns”, he said looking hard at Watson. “You said your friend could help?”

“We would both wish to help one of the doctor's fellow workers”, I said carefully. “Is Aunt Aneira in?”

“You're looking at her!”

֍

That old canard about the clock suddenly having a loud tick is actually quite true. We both stared incredibly at the scrawny young fellow before us. Whatever I had expected from an agony aunt, he fell short on just about every level. Some more than others!

“Name's Aneurin Peters”, he said sitting down. “I was named for my great-aunt, the original Aunt Aneira. She did a letters page for a small magazine down in Cardiff, and when the _'Strand'_ bought them out they asked her to continue. She got dozens of letters every week and could only answer a few in the magazine, though she tried to group them to help more folks.”

I could guess the next part.

“And then she died?” I asked. He nodded glumly.

“We were struggling as it was, what with all my family to support”, he said. “She had her own small pension but of course that went with her. The money from the column was a godsend; we'd have lost the cottage without it. Then the wife pointed out that the money was actually being paid into my account anyway – my great-aunt had always hated banks – so why didn't I step up and become the new Aunt Aneira?”

“Um, fraud?” Watson suggested.

“No-one got hurt”, the young fellow countered, although he had gone quite red. “And I got good at it all right; they upped the payments when they increased the size of her column – my column – to a full page spread so it was popular and all. Too popular as it turned out; they wanted me to come to London for some stupid party or other as one of their top writers. What are they going to say when all their subscribers come in expecting to see some maiden aunt in Welsh costume and a dirty young coal-miner steps out in front of them? They'll lynch me!”

I thought for a moment.

“What do you think was the most important letter that you have had in recent times?” I asked.

He looked surprised at my question but answered it anyway.

“Poor girl whose father died down a mine in Yorkshire”, he said. “The magazine didn't want to publish that one – they said it was too sad - but I wrote to her in person because.... I could see how she felt. She wrote back that she felt so much better for what I had said; she also wrote to the magazine to thank them for publishing me even if they didn't do my letter. I felt sort of proud at that.”

“You do not therefore appear to be doing any harm”, I said. “I think that we should be able to find a way around this.”

I turned to the doctor.

“Who is in charge of the magazine just now?” I asked.

“Mr. Symmonds”, he said. “A bit set in his ways but not a bad fellow; I treated him one time.”

I turned back to Mr. Peters.

“I think that the best solution is a degree of openness”, I said, “otherwise we are going to keep encountering this problem every time the magazine asks 'Aunt Aneira' to come to London. I shall approach Mr. Symmonds and explain all to him so that he desists from making any further requests.”

“But what if he cuts me off?” Mr. Peters fretted. “We need that money, sir!”

“Two things”, I said. “First, I would not wager your financial situation in this matter. If for some reason Mr. Symmonds proves at all difficult, then I shall order my family to step in and fund you until we can find another magazine with better taste. And second, although I would be loath to do it I am sure that the owner of the magazine will realize that someone who is a friend of a family as rich as mine should be treated fairly, otherwise he might start to find all sorts of unexpected difficulties in his future. But hopefully he can be persuaded to be reasonable without needing to go down that road.”

֍

My hopes were to be fulfilled as Mr. Symmonds was indeed delighted to discover the real identity of his favourite writer, even if his agony aunt was now an agony uncle. I suppose from his point of view it made it likely that the column could continue for many more years which indeed it did. Indeed Mr. Peters was able to take up writing for two more publications soon after and even able to quit mining himself. Best of all, he told me in a most gracious letter, that thanks to an unexpected scholarship his sons did not have to go down the mine but could actually go away to university (I may or may not have helped a bit with that scholarship). A happy ending all round.

֍


End file.
